


Then and Now (Gold Can Stay)

by BarnesRogersVsTheWorld



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 06:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld/pseuds/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld
Summary: It starts with a birthday. It ends with one, too.





	Then and Now (Gold Can Stay)

———————-

##  **THEN**

———————-

“I got you somethin-”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Bucky answers, rocking on the heels of his oxfords, hands hidden behind his back. Sea gray eyes twinkle as he regards Steve with an easy smile.

He looks boyish- clad only in a henley undershirt half tucked into brown trousers. His hair disheveled and damp, poking in every which direction. His brows are raised and that little cleft in his chin is dimpled. A birthday boy far removed from the overworked man who lately has taken to collapsing onto his bed in exhaustion, lapsing into loud snores before he even has the chance to kick off his boots.

Steve watches him warily from the edge of his own bed, coal dusted fingers paused and poised over the pages of his sketchbook. “Do you know how birthdays work?” He frowns.

“Yeah- it’s my day to do whatever the hell I want,” Bucky quips, winning a half smile that seems to please him, “so I got you somethin.”

There’s a drawn out pause before he knocks an antsy knee against the bed again. His demeanor is infectious, and finally Steve sets aside his things, wiping his hands onto his pants as he murmurs, thoroughly resigned, “Okay.”

Bucky ignores the tone, his excitement uncontained as, unable to wait any longer, he pulls said something from behind his back, thrusting it forward into Steve’s hands, “I didn’t wrap it,” he says, “Hope you don’t mind.”

The box is handsome- a dark polished grain that feels smooth beneath Steve’s fingertips. He runs the length of if before glancing up at Bucky hesitantly, who nods as if to say  _Go on, open it_. The breath punches from his lungs when he finally does. His smile fades. His fingers tremble.

“Buck,” he murmurs.

“It’s nothing, really-”

“ _Bucky_ -” stronger and more incredulous as he regards the contents of the box in disbelief.

“Don’t blow you wig over it. It’s not a big deal, I-”

“I can’t keep these.”

And, “What?”

In an instant, Bucky looks hurt. Visibly stung by the declaration. He frowns at Steve, hand worrying the back of his neck as he says, “What do you mean? Are they not- are they the wrong?”

“What? No.  _No_ ,” Steve stares at the box again, too embarrassed to look at his counterpart. His fingers brush the inside of the lid, soft and gilded with  _ **A.W. FABER “CASTELL**_ ”. The pencils all unsharpened and perfectly lined and so rich in color they make his chest ache. He runs his thumb over them, crimson, golden yellow, indigo, emerald. His heart flutters in his chest, “These must have cost you-”

“Doesn’t matter what they cost.”

“It does. And I didn’t get you anything near this-”

“It does not matter. Steve. Come  _on_ -” he bounces on his feet again, anxious, “Come on,” he repeats, running fingers through his hair, “I saved and I- I didn’t take from what I normally bring in. It was all just extra work and calling favors to folks and- and I ordered them through the school so the price was fair. I would’ve kept them for your own birthday, but they came in and you know I can’t keep secrets. I won’t get you anything else if it’ll make you feel better.  _Ever_. If that is what this is about. But if you’re just trying not to tell me you don’t actually like them-”

“They’re incredible-” he protests.

The anxiety drains from Bucky’s expression. He sighs, the side of his mouth twitching up slightly, “Then, they’re yours.”

Steve had often thought that if life operated on a system of checks and balances the cards he’d been dealt would make so much sense. Underweight, asthmatic, heart beating in irregularities more often than not. All that would be needed to counter the weight of having Bucky as a best friend.

That’s what he wants to tell him. Maybe a  _thank you_ , if anything. What he does say is- with strained words and an uncontained grin, “You are the  _worst_.”

But that’s the benefit of having a best friend who knows your soul- Bucky knows exactly what he means. His responding smile could light the world.

“Praise me later,” he teases, kneeing the edge of Steve’s bed again, “We’re going to be late.”

———————-

The Barnes’ apartment is warm and bright and smells so good Steve’s mouth begins to water the moment they step inside. Becca practically squeals their arrival, bounding into her older brother’s arms while singing a preliminary  _Happy Birthday_  and smacking his cheek with a kiss. Bucky carries her into the kitchen with an exaggerated, silly drag, shouting for his mom as Steve follows behind.

Mrs. Barnes makes a fuss over him the way all mothers do- his hair is getting too long, he needs to shave that five o’clock shadow, he looks tired and is he  _sure_  he is eating? All while hugging him and pinching his cheeks so that he’s ducking away from her with a laugh and an exaggerated, “ _Ma_!”

She’s much gentler with Steve, embracing him and patting him on the cheek and kissing his forehead in a way that leaves him with a desperate ache for his own Mom.

She’s cooked pork chops with cubed apples and potato cakes and buttery, roasted parsnips. Finished it all with Bucky’s favorite flourless chocolate cake heaped in a thick, sweet glaze so shiny it catches the light off the ceiling.

They eat so much that by the end of it all Bucky is moaning and groaning and making a show of never being hungry again in his life. Still, when they pass over gifts and Steve’s so happens to be a box of his favorite toffeed chocolate, he delves into it like he is starving.

“Thanks, pal,” he muffles around a stuffed mouth, Becca the only one to accept his half hearted offer to share, an ‘ _aw shucks_ ’ grin on his lips when everyone else declines.

Steve laughs. He wants to tell him about the exchange he had with the girl at the mercantile when he bought them-

_These for someone special?_

_Er. Yeah?_

_I’ll box them up all pretty for her._

-feels like Bucky’d get a kick out of the idea of being his dame. But the thought of repeating it suddenly leaves his mouth dry. Makes his heart lurch a little more than what he is used to.

So…he doesn’t.

Bucky kisses his Ma and sister good night, making a real production out of having to walk home in his gluttoned state. He clutches his belly and wraps his arm around Steve, begging him to carry him with a whining draw, “ _C’mon Stevie.”_

He swears to Steve he’s  _dying_. Swears being so full is worse than being soused. But Steve just laughs and entertains his theatrics, letting him grouse the whole way while leaning on him for support. It’s the most content he’s felt in a while.

They are barely inside their door before Bucky’s undressing. Tugging his shirt over his head and kicking his pants off as he walks. The fact that he doesn’t stumble is a talent in itself. He stands at the edge of his bed with his undershirt pulled up to his chest, staring too long at his stomach before he tells Steve to touch it, effectively turning his face fifty shades of fire.

Steve swats him away, tells him he’s ridiculously dramatic, but Bucky only laughs. He strips completely before climbing into his bed, declaring it the best birthday ever as he pulls his blanket up to his chin and closes his eyes. It’s only when he thinks he’s drifted off to sleep that Steve removes his own shirt and pants. A low whistle from the opposite side of the room has him nearly jumping out of his skin, and Bucky chortles as Steve tosses him a glare.

“I  _hate_  you,” he says, “so much.”

“Keep tellin yourself that, pal. I know the truth.”

It’s later, much later, when Steve’s temperature feels normal again. Bucky’s quiet snores fill the room, and Steve holds the wooden box he’d left on his bedside table in his hands. He strokes his fingers over the smooth polish. His throat feels tight.

The truth- or one truth, at least, a safer truth- is that the birthday gift he’d originally intended on giving Bucky is still pressed beneath his mattress.

The truth is, Steve’s pretty sure it’s going to stay there.

Because the truth is he may be just a little bit selfish.  

He doesn’t sleep much at all, choosing instead to watch the way moonlight dapples across his closest friend’s handsome face.

He always tries, in moments of silent contemplation, to pinpoint the moment it happened. He never can. Part of him thinks it has always been true- that he has always let Bucky Barnes take up most of the room in his heart.

———————-

“Steve-“

“No.”

“Stevie-“

“Adding a syllable to my name won’t change my mind.”

Bucky is  _huffing_. The absolute picture of a child, hopping on the balls of his feet in frustration as Steve glares at him from the foot of his bed.

He’s done up all handsome. Hair slicked back all neat, wearing the button up his Ma bought him for his birthday. It’s the right shade of blue to enhance his glorious eyes- and Steve feels a lick of jealousy low in his belly, a lump in his throat that makes it hard to swallow when he looks at him.

So. He tries not to.

But it’s hard. Because he is huffing.

“ _Come on_ -” he says, hands pressed at his hips, brows drawn together in duress, “it’s friday. I haven’t been out on a friday since god knows when. And Phyllis is bringing her girlfriend Betty and I’ve already told her all about you and-”

“No.”

Unfair as it may be, he can’t help but feel angry over it. To feel little barbs of irritation prick into him as Bucky pleads. He knows it’s irrational, to want him to stay with him, alone, curled up quietly with a book while he sketches. He knows it’s wrong to feel betrayed that he doesn’t.

“It’s just a little dancing-”

“I don’t dance.”

“I can teach you. Hell,” Bucky says, taking a step toward him, reaching out, “come on- I can give you a quick one-two and you’ll be ready to go,” Steve attempts to dodge, but Bucky grabs onto him anyway. His eyes are light and happy, still hopeful there’s a chance as his hand finds Steve’s, as he teasingly pulls him close.

It’s too much, the contact in the midst of how he feels. Too much. Steve wrenches himself away, effectively leeching the joy from his best friend’s face.

“ _Dammit,_  Buck,” he breathes, “I said  _no_! I already know how this ends. Why should I go?”

And Bucky looks hurt. Looks visibly wounded as he answers, “Because I want you to. Is that not enough?”

“You want me to go so you can pawn me off on whatever the hell her name is while you busy yourself necking in the corner. I’m not an idiot. But you obviously are, because you seem to be dumb to the fact that every time we do this you end up with a dame on each arm and I end up trailing behind like this pathetic kid-”

“Steve-”

“I know my value to them. I don’t have to keep being reminded again and  _again_.”

He blinks. Dumbstruck. His voice is impossibly soft, “Your value?” he says, “Stevie-”

Again. Too much. The ache of Bucky’s pity burns his throat as he answers, “Don’t do that to me. Don’t talk to me like I’m a child-”

Silence stretches between them. Too heavy and intense and ugly for the moment. After a long pause, Bucky, chest heaving, presses back, “Maybe don’t give me a reason to-“

“Maybe go ahead and leave, why don’t you? Do us both a favor. I know you’re dying to go and I could use the peace.”

Steve flops onto his bed, arms folded, resolutely looking away. The worst part is that he knows he is wrong. That he has hurt the one person who cares about him more than anyone else. More than- but bitterly- _bitterly_ not enough.

Bucky’s words are flat, defeated, a knife to his heart, “Fine,” he says, “Great. Don’t wait up.”

But he does.

He can’t help it. Can barely quell the bitter ruin that courses his blood, forcing him to dry sob into his pillow until everything is quiet and dark and it _hurts_.

It’s isn’t fair to expect anything more from Bucky than platonic devotion. Than genuine, loving, friendly camaraderie. It’s isn’t fair for him to take innocent touches and prolonged gazes and gestures and manipulate them into something more, only to be crushed upon the first reminder that Bucky does not reciprocate any feelings he may have. It’s isn’t fair to Bucky at all. And, Steve thinks, it isn’t fair to him, either. It only ends up in hurt.

He expects Bucky to lumber in much later smelling of smoke and booze and a good time. But sooner than he predicts, he hears the rattle of the lock on the door, and Bucky’s near quiet footfalls across the apartment floor. He feigns sleep as soon as he enters the room. His heart lurching as, after a pause, footsteps move toward him.

Bucky smells like nothing. Like cold night air and the scent that is quintessentially him, but nothing more as he hovers over Steve’s bed- as Steve makes a concerted effort to keep his breathing steady. To not startle in shock as a light press of fingers rest cool against his forehead, gently brushing back the hair that’s fallen forward into his eyes. They linger there. Too long, and then they’re gone, the ghost of their presence tingling his skin.

Bucky’s snores start up soon enough.

But Steve doesn’t sleep a wink.

———————-

He clambers, weak bodied, out of bed the next morning to the smell of biscuits. A cheap and easy boxed mix, but good smelling all the same. Bucky’s hovered over the pan of them as he shuffles into the kitchen, straightening and throwing a guarded gaze over his shoulder when he hears him, a softly murmured, “Hey.”

He shames him without even trying, “Hey.”

“You want coffee?”

Steve eases himself into a chair, wiping a hand over his exhausted face. Everything hurts, “We have coffee?”

“Mud, more like. But it’s not the worst.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for him to answer before setting a full mug gently in front of him, followed shortly by the plated biscuits, a few coarsely chopped pears, and a small jar of honey. He kicks out the only other chair to the tiny table and seats himself, making a face as he sips from his own mug, “It  _is_  the worst,” he mutters, a small attempt at their normally easy banter but still careful, still wary.

Barbed silence presses into the room as they both fill their plates, Bucky more heavy handed on honey than anything. Steve watches as he drizzles it over everything, spilling sticky gold onto fingers he raises to his mouth and licks clean. Gray eyes fall softly onto his, holding him there in a prolonged stare that prickles his chest. Then-

“Are you mad at me?”

And, “I’m an asshole.”

Spoken at the same time, desperately to one another from across the table. Steve casts his eyes down. Bucky runs an anxious hand through his hair.

“I just,” he says slowly, “I shouldn’t have tried to get you to go. I should have listened when you said no. The idea that you’re angry with me makes me sick-”

The words tighten Steve’s chest, “I’m not angry. Buck. Come on. I was just being sensitive-“

“You were being honest and I was being too stubborn and stupid to listen,” he pauses, waiting for him to look up, nudging his foot gently beneath the table when he doesn’t, “Steve,” he says, “you know I don’t want to just bring you places to pawn you off on someone, right? You know I just want you there with me, right?”

“Sure.”

“Come on. You  _know_  me. You know that’s true. And your value?” He pauses again. And this time, cautiously. Steve peeks his eyes up, settling them onto burnished sea blue. His stare is hard, but his words are soft, “You’re just. You’re invaluable, okay? Don’t ever say anything to the contrary again.”

Soft. But stern. They wrap Steve’s throat in a vice grip, squeezing it so he can hardly swallow. _Invaluable._  The word settles there, heavy on his heart.

His ducks his eyes down again, pushes a clipped laugh from between his lips to detract from the fact the he is absolutely hell bound and hopeless.

“Hey,” he coughs, an attempt at humor, “did you at least have a good time?”

“What- walking the block til you were asleep? It was a gas.”

He looks up, “You didn’t go?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Bucky shrugs, delving into his biscuits with a finality that says it’s the only response he is willing to offer.

Steve doesn’t press him.

It takes a bit for things to feel easy between them again. But, eventually, they do.

———————-

Bucky sits stretched out, back to the river and the setting sun, toes pressed into the grass beneath him, warm for the first time this year. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, sleeves rolled and pushed up past his elbows. His hair hangs over his forehead, eyes cast in rapt focus onto the book he’s holding.

He is the utter picture of perfection.

Steve sketches him with careful interest, a fitting subject to break in the gorgeous set of pencils he’d only stared at in admiration until Bucky’d forced him outside, intent upon using them. It’d almost hurt, sharpening them for the very first time.

But Steve sits facing him now, testing them out, focusing less on the sunset itself than the color of the glow it casts across chestnut hair.

Bucky’d picked up his first book of poetry under the joking guise of becoming well versed for the ladies. Of fancying himself a dandy while memorizing words that’d make them swoon.

But he’d been the one who’d fallen in love.

He collects them like treasure now. Bits from magazines pressed into notebooks, clippings from papers. Scribbles of verses he catches on the radio or remembers from something he can’t quite place. The rare but prized and usually second hand compilation.

The one he holds now is bound in seafoam and dove, a stamped yellow plate on the cover with  **New Hampshire**  scrawled across. He devours it as he sits there, sprawled, tongue jutting just slightly from between his lips. The way it always does when he’s focused. Eyes the same kind of greedy Steve thinks must reflect in his own as he watches Bucky’s face.

Curiosity overcomes him. He stretches a foot out across the distance, nudging a shoe against Bucky’s ankle.

“What’s got you so enamored over there?”

There’s a long moment before he answers. Before his eyes slowly pull from the pages and rest onto Steve, soft and stricken in a way that cartwheels Steve’s heart in his chest.

“Want me to read it to you?” He asks.

“Go on, then.”

He tips his head down again, rosy sunlight glancing off his shoulders.

_Nature’s first green is gold,_

_Her hardest hue to hold._

_Her early leaf’s a flower;_

_But only so an hour._

_Then leaf subsides to leaf._

_So Eden sank to grief,_

_So dawn goes down to day._

_Nothing gold can stay._

He’s beautiful, wrapped in golden hues of dusk, his lips moving carefully over the words, shaping them so lovingly as he reads them out loud it tinges fire across Steve’s cheeks. Curls flame into his belly so overwhelmingly stifling that it feels hard to breathe.

He looks away from him. Turns his attention instead at the penciled Bucky on his paper. Beautiful, too- but does the real one no justice. He doesn’t realize how long he’s quiet until a bare foot nudges against the sole of his shoe.

“What’s got  _you_  so enamored over there?”

He glances up from beneath his lashes, watching as the corner of Bucky’s mouth tips into a smile.

“Sunset,” he answers quietly.

But his pink tinged cheeks, his stricken gaze, they say something else entirely. They look up at a watchful Bucky, and they say  _You_.

———————-

The words finally hit him in the dead of night, when everything is quiet save for the steady back and forth sawing of Bucky’s snores.

They punch him solidly, unexpectedly in the chest, conjuring with them unwanted images that invade his mind.

Bucky. Handsome and smiling, arms wrapped around the shadowed figure of a girl. Watching her with hazy, loving eyes. Pushing her hair back and away from her face.

Bucky. Packing away his belongings. Boxing up his life and severing it from Steve’s own with nothing more than a parting wave and a side hug goodbye.

Bucky. Starting the rest of his life without him. Forgetting him the way one forgets friends when life moves up and on. The inevitable moment when one builds a family and a home.

And Steve.

_Nothing gold can stay._

Without him.

_Nothing gold can stay._

Alone.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying out loud- that the choked sobs rasping in his ears are not coming from his mind but rather, achingly, his lungs- pushed out between devastated lips until two hands, large and strong but unfailingly gentle, fall upon his cheeks.

“Steve,” he calls, “Hey hey  _hey._   _Stevie_ -“ his words are quick and fraught with worry as he guides Steve’s face to look at him, a moonlit picture of anxiety and fear furrowed brows as he asks, “Asthma?”

It  _feels_  like it. It feels like Steve cannot breathe- if for any reason because his heart still sits there, vice gripped with sorrow and throbbing in his chest. It feels like an attack but it’s not. He can’t convey it with words. Only a fierce shaking of his head.

“Your cheeks are burning up,” Bucky says, “like you have fever-“

“No,” he chokes out as thumbs brush beneath his eyes, sweeping over heavy tears, “No,” he insists again, shuddering to catch his breath. He’s spent his life being sick more days than not. He  _knows_ sickness, and other than a breaking heart, this is not it.

Still, Bucky in a panicked rush breathes, “Let me get you water-“

“No-“ fingers grasp the hands that fall away from his face- stilling them between the two men and halting Bucky’s movement from the bed. The thought of him walking out of the room and leaving him alone, even for just a moment, is so petrifying he can’t keep it out of his tone as he begs, “Buck-“ hands climbing Bucky’s forearms, over his shoulders, wrapping around his neck and desperately clinging, “Oh, _Bucky_ -“

“Steve.  _Hey_ -“ it’s calmer now, Bucky’s voice. Frightened still, but pushed with a forced calm as he realizes it’s not medication Steve needs. That no ailment is threatening to take him away. He takes a few steadying breaths of relief before reaching behind his neck, unclasping Steve’s hands and bringing them down by his sides again. Arms, strong and labor hardened, wrap around Steve’s small frame, cocooning him, pulling him impossibly close and lowering him down as he settles onto the cramped mattress beside him.

There’s no room for shame.

No place for it at all as Bucky’s hands splay across Steve’s bony back, one sliding up to thread his hair, the other brushing soothing motions up and down the bumps of his spine.

He presses his mouth close to Steve’s ear, breath warm and soothing across shivered skin as he murmurs, “Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Blunt nails scrape against his scalp, fingers sifting through fine strands of gold.

Maybe in some other frame of mind Steve would care that he needed to be held like this. Soothed. Like a baby.

But right now he only cares about Bucky.

 _Please, don’t ever leave me_ , he wants to say.

_Please. Stay._

All he manages between shudders and broken sobs is a desperate, choked declaration, “I hate that _fucking_  poem.”

Bucky says nothing. He lays there with him, tightening his arms and tugging Steve into his chest.

He holds him until the trembling stops.

———————-

They navigate the next morning in awkward silence. Awkward on Steve’s part, at least, who avoids Bucky’s watchful gaze as he busies himself making breakfast, taking an excessive amount of time to peel the skin off of his pear. To smear marmalade over his toast.

The space beneath his eyes feels swollen. His nose so stuffed the pressure aches into his brain. His fingers are stiff. His legs are tired. His soul is…

Bucky clears his throat. Finally, when the burn of a sea gray stare becomes too much, Steve glances up.

 _Wanna talk about it_? A silent, wordless plea, cast upon eyes wide but careful with concern.

His soul is  _weary_.

Steve looks down at his food again,  _No_.

They eat together in silence so pressing it’s painful. Steve has no appetite, eating only until he doesn’t feel guilty about the waste before silently excusing himself to scrape the remains into the trash.

He doesn’t know it, but that second hand copy of  **New Hampshire** \- the one Bucky’d held like a prize the day before- it’s there, too. In that trash. Buried beneath all of the rubbish on top.

———————-

“What’s this?”

Steve toes at the heap on the floor of their bedroom. The mass of blankets and pillows piled atop two thin twin mattresses pushed together and joined at the edges. He frowns as Bucky watches him, hands propped onto his hips. His mouth lilted into that familiar lopsided grin.

“Old times,” he answers, “Felt nostalgic.”

“Sure-”

“What?”

“If this is some kind of pity ploy-”

“What? You pity me? Stevie. Don’t be rude-”

He’s playful. Eyes light and dancing again as he reaches out and shoves at Steve’s shoulder. Ruffles his hair until he ducks away, swatting his hand.

Steve laughs, despite himself. He’d be lying if he said there isn’t a part of him that feels immensely comforted by the idea of Bucky being an arms reach away. That doesn’t feel touched that, despite his lack of communication, Bucky would know this enough to suggest they sleep the way they always used to when they were kids.

Still. The idea that the one person he respects the most pities him, “Buck-” he says, hand gripped at the back of his neck, “seriously-”

And, “ _Seriously_ ,” Bucky repeats, “Can you not overthink everything for once? It’s not a big deal. We can tell ghost stories. Same way we used to. And I promise I’ll wear pants.”

Steve blinks, startled, his heart somersaulting as he regards Bucky with shock.

“Unless,” Bucky goads, mouth twitched into a devious smirk as he quirks a brow, “you don’t  _want_  me to…”

He goes down laughing, driven into the mattress by Steve’s small but mighty force.

“How does one man-“ he coughs with mirth, dodging hands and twisting into  blankets, “contain _so much_  anger,” he grabs a pillow to shield himself, “in such an average sized brain?” Ducking behind it, “Need to get some of it out, Stevie” he says, “Can’t be much room in there for anything else.”

Unceremoniously he takes that pillow, and, with a shit eating grin, wallops Steve hard in the face.

“I hate you,” but he’s laughing. Wailing and rough housing into Bucky’s sides as he tries to squirm away. For the first time in days, he’s actually  _laughing_. And Bucky sees it. And it lights him up like the sun.

“I hate you  _so much_.”

———————-

The mattress on the floor become a thing.

Neither Steve or Bucky make an effort to change it.

Hands finding one another in the dark become a thing.

Gentle, reassuring presses of fingers into skin not their own.

Neither Steve or Bucky make an effort to stop.

———————-

It happens.

In the dead of night. In the quiet and still darkness, Steve wakes with the fading images of Bucky’s mouth consuming him. With his name, hot and gasped and  _wanting_  on his lips.

He’d blame the closeness if not for the fact that he’s dreamed these infrequent, forbidden dreams for years.

His heart thunders beneath his palm. Strong and steady but wild in his chest.

Strong and steady.

 _Steady_.

He processes the word with a frown.

His heart is  _not_  steady.

His palm is not resting on his chest.

But, rather… _a_ chest.

His eyes fly open with a start.

Moonlight casts softly from the window, spilling over planked floors onto the haphazard pile of mattress, dappling across the handsome face cast in his direction.

Bucky. Watching him. Awake.

His heart pounds a fierce rhythm against Steve’s fingers, warm breath, fast and shallow, spilled between parted lips. His eyes are wide and wild- burnished silver burning at Steve through the darkness.

Steve laments the end of it all. The dissolution of their friendship. The push from Bucky as he turns away and leaves him forever.

But Bucky does not move.

They remain that way for an eternity. Frozen. Staring. Anxious breaths mingled together between them.

Surely, Steve thinks, this is how he is going to die. With his heart pumping so fast and so hard that it opens fissures in his delicate skin, pushing all of his blood out and spilling it in a river across the floor.

Fingers spasm over Bucky’s chest. He moves to withdraw them. Surely, this is the end.

A hand, strong and urgent, wraps around Steve’s wrist, stopping him. Holding him there before guiding him down and resting his palm on the jut of his hip.

Steve swallows audibly, fingers pressed into the heat of Bucky’s skin. Too hot for Spring. Eyes flicker wild again as he reaches up and curves his hand against Steve’s cheek, his fingers- steady under most circumstances- trembling slightly as they sweep the fine golden hairs that reach for the corner of Steve’s eye.

There’s a moment where everything is suspended. Where they watch each other. Waiting.

Fire licks from the base of Steve’s spine. A smoldering burn that threatens to wick up his bones and consume him. To suffocate him beneath a sea gray stare.

It will be humiliatingly poignant, he thinks, to die this way.

He doesn’t know who does it. Who exactly makes that deceptively subtle shift that is a flying leap past the point of no return. But one moment they are staring. Lips parted. Panting. Waiting. The next their mouths are connected in the dark.

Steve moves as if he is in a dream. Agonizingly slow. A push against quicksand. And it  _has to_ be. It cannot be anything more than a desperate dream brought into realistic fruition by an even more desperate heart.

Bucky’s lips. Bucky’s lips on his lips. Full and pillowy, sliding delicately over Steve’s, tasting him, claiming him like treasure. Tenderly soft, as if speaking aloud the words to one of his beloved poems. He sweeps his tongue, warm and wet, along the border of Steve’s lips before pausing, hovering, and- with a strangled noise in the back of his throat- delving past them and into his mouth.

Could it be, Steve thinks, that he has died already? Did he pass peacefully in his sleep only to wake to this bizarre, incongruous reality of reciprocated desire?

It  _feels_  real. So real that, throwing caution to the wind, he decides he doesn’t care much to actually find out.

His hand rockets from Bucky’s side in a desperate bid to grasp the hair at the back of his head. To thread through short, chestnut strands and tug him close. So close.

He is on fire. Steve is unhinged and on fire, his tongue wild and eager to lick into Bucky. To sweep the roof of his mouth, to push against his tongue. To taste every bit of him previously unknown.

He’s never kissed anyone before. Not anyone. But…he was made for this. For him, in paticular.

Steve Rogers was  _made_  to kiss Bucky Barnes.

Strong arms snake his tiny waist, wrapping around him and pulling him flush against Bucky’s warm, bare chest. Without breaking contact, he rolls onto his back, carrying Steve with him.

Everything is touching. Every shaking, feverish limb pressed together touching as Steve lies on top of him. Mouth to mouth. Heart to heart. Bucky holds him. Bucky drinks him in like a parched man desperate for water.

And, Steve thinks, if he  _is_ dead- if he has _actually_  died, he is going to make damn sure he stays that way. No resuscitation. No coming back.

Blunted fingernails dig into his spine. Drag down the length of it and over his underwear, pressing into the flesh of his ass as Bucky pushes down.

The kiss breaks with a startled gasp. He is- they both are- desperately hard.

Steve raises up slightly, chest heaving against Bucky’s as he stares down at him with wondrous eyes. Bucky. His best friend. His one love. Vulnerable beneath him, pupils blown wide, lips glistening wet and parted.

It’s real, he decides. Even in his wildest dreams Steve doesn’t. He never-

It is  _real_.

And it is Bucky who next moves.

Bucky who, eyes heady with desire, raises up just enough to nip at Steve’s lip- capturing it gently between his teeth. And teeth alone pull him down again, so slow and so mind blowingly sexy that he swears to god he’ll forever after play it on loop in his memory until he actually does die.

The first buck of hips rockets through Steve, ecstasy reverberating through his bones, pushing a strangled, gruff cry from the back of his throat. He palms at Bucky’s skin- his biceps, his shoulders, desperate for traction and chasing that high as he mimics the movement rolling his hips down hard, punching a moan out of Bucky that he stifles fervently with a kiss.

He’s never heard him sound like  _that_ before.

“Again,” Bucky breathes, hoarse. Hands clumsy as they slide up over the curve of Steve’s ass again, and then back down, beneath his underwear, fingers grasping and kneading greedily into his skin.

Steve grinds down harder as Bucky’s hips thrust up to meet him, his head tipping back into the pillow, his eyes shuttering closed. Steve takes the opportunity to lick along his jaw. Down the column of his throat. Anywhere his mouth can touch. He bucks again against him. Again, as Bucky presses, urging him down. The whimpers the movement pulls from between his lips lighting goosebumps along Steve’s skin.

Again and again. Bucky’s fingers digging so hard into flesh that if he could register anything other than bliss it would hurt. He pushes Steve down. Pushes his hips down against and into his, a rhythm that starts slow and steadily picks up speed. Faster, until it becomes messy and hot and desperate. Until sweat slicks their skin and slips their bodies and friction builds so intense it’s painful and-

“Buck. _Bucky_ ,” Steve pants, palming his chest, body aching as he buries his face into the crook of his neck, “please don’t stop-”

A grunted response- rougher, hands slipped down past his ass to the backs of his thighs, gripping them hard and pushing them up, leveraging him into the perfect spot, “ _Steve_ ,” he whimpers, “ _Oh_ -“

His name, sweet and hot on Bucky’s lips, is his undoing.

Steve comes hard with a stutter of his hips, panting Bucky’s name over and over again like a mantra, warm breath pressed into his neck. He flicks his tongue against it, tasting the sweat that’s beaded his skin. And, with a carnal moan, Bucky follows very shortly after.

They come down slowly together, hips thrusting lazily in their post orgasm haze. Mouths press tender, soothing kisses against the other as breaths mingle before slowing, syncing. Steve is  _exhausted._  In a matter of minutes his world has changed. He has been taken apart and drained and pieced together again and he is exhausted. Slowly, he slumps forward, allowing his weight to collapse and rest fully on top of Bucky.

Hands slide up again, warm along his back. Bucky’s lips press softly, settling against his sweat dampened hairline.

First friend.

First  _best_ friend.

First roommate.

First love.

Bucky, Steve thinks heavily, has merely checked a few more boxes off of his list of firsts.

His mind is really to buzz over it. To move a mile a minute through the great wide world of overthinking. But his body, bone-weary and spent, simply will not allow it.

He falls asleep before there’s a chance to let the panic set in

———————-

Time passes blindingly slow.

Steve wants to crawl out of his skin.

Bucky is not there.

He reappears days later, when Steve returns from the mercantile and finds him hunched on his bed, head down, hands fisted into his hair. He doesn’t realize he’s no longer alone until he clears his throat, and it nearly causes him to leap up and out of his skin.

“Where were you?” Bucky asks, eyes wide and worried.

Annoyance flickers against Steve before he gets and good look at him, and he swiftly quashes it, after. His skin is sallow, worry-lined, shadows purpled beneath large pupiled eyes. Steve’s heart lurches. Still, he counters back, “Where were  _you_?”

“My folks,” Bucky answers, hand scrubbing against the stubble on his jaw, “said you weren’t well off. Said it was contagious-”

Steve snorts, he hates that it’s bitter. “Guess it wasn’t a complete lie-”

“ _Steve_ -”

He notices it then, the journal beside Bucky’s thigh. The gift he’d kept hidden beneath his mattress before discarding it onto his bedside table the morning he fixed his bed- in the aftermath of it all.

Bucky follows his gaze, eyes widening as he glances up at him again, “I didn’t open it,” he says quickly, imploringly, “I just. I saw my name on the front of it and I wanted to but I didn’t. You know I wouldn’t violate your privacy like that-”

“You should,” he answers quietly, “It’s not private. It’s your birthday present-”

Bucky’s brows draw together in confusion.

“ _Was_  your birthday present,” he corrects, “Should have been,” and, “Go on. Open it-”

Because, if he’s damned this relationship to irreparable Hell then he should, at the very least, offer his friend a parting gift.

Bucky watches him, lips parted, ready to protest. As if the last thing he wants to do in the midst of what hangs between them is open another goddamn birthday gift. But he swallows. He nods. He listens.

It had taken Steve ages to make. Months of thoughtful collection and mindful planning. Bits of favorite words here, sketches of landmarks they’d only seen in books there. Thick pieces of salvaged watercolor paper. smooth sheets of vellum squirreled away from class. He’d bound them all together himself. Painstakingly and lovingly so. Scripted it with a careful hand he’d practiced over and over again until his fingers ached.

 _I wanna see the whole world_ , Bucky used to say when they were much younger _, I wanna see all of it. And write it all down._

The journal was Steve’s vision of what it’d look like if he did. Waiting only now, for his words.

He watches as Bucky flips through it. Pausing to admire sketches. To read verses. He mouths them lovingly. The way he always does. Holding it open carefully, like it’s the greatest treasure.

“I guess it doesn’t hurt now to tell you I didn’t give it to you,” Steve swallows, pausing to steady his breath, “because I was afraid-”

“Come here-”

He’s surprised by the interruption, the request Bucky makes without even looking up. But he obeys without question, crossing the room to his bed. He sinks down onto the mattress beside him. Slowly, Bucky closes the journal, keeping it clutched close to his chest as he looks up.

“This is,” he says, and Steve swears his eyes are misted, “the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. _Ever._  What in hell were you afraid of?”

“I was going to tell you to see the world. To see everything and write it all down and send it back to me. I was afraid that you actually would.”

And there it is. As simple as he can convey it at least, there it is. Steve’s heart. Open and vulnerable and exposed before them. Between them. Bucky knows him well enough, has loved him long enough, to know exactly what it means.

He holds it there. Weighs it on his heart, testing the start of words on his lips before deciding, finally, exactly what it is he wants to say back.

“I’m not going anywhere,” is what he comes up with, pausing, licking his lips, “unless you are  _right there_  with me.” He breathes a laugh that is nervous, eyes silver and bright as he adds, “How many times do I gotta say end of the line to you before you start believing me?”

And there it is. Bucky’s heart. Open and vulnerable and exposed between them. And, Steve thinks, it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. The most beautiful thing he has ever known. And Steve loves him. He loves Bucky so much and,  _oh_ -

Bucky loves him.

The revelation stuns him, leaving him breathless and quiet until Bucky, with an impatient huff, groans-

“Stevie. Come on. I’m  _dying_  over here-”

Laughter startles from his throat, bubbling up and over with joy. Careful hands clasp the sides of Bucky’s face. There is so much to talk about. So many things to say, worries to discuss, feelings to explore. But right now, Steve doesn’t care about any of them. Right now, Steve only cares about kissing Bucky.

So he does.

———————-

It’s hard, they find, as time presses on. So unbelievably hard to be bursting at the seams with love for someone that you’re not allowed to publicly convey.

To not hug them or grab onto their hand kiss them sweetly on the lips. To not run and shout from the rooftops, _I love him. I love this man._

It’s hard. But against the fear of not knowing. Against that ache of unrequitedness. It’s hard, but Steve finds it easy enough.

Their beds are no longer on the floor, but they do wind up pushed together in the center of the room. Like lovers do. More often than not, they fail to utilize the space. Wind up huddled together on one side because they just want to be with and on and around one another so much- and there’s something about spooning on a cramped twin mattress that seems to make everything a little better. That seems to make it all okay.

Bucky holds him- he curves Steve into his chest and strokes fingers down his back and talks of a day where he can love him openly. Where they can walk down the street arm in arm. Where he can kiss him whenever he wants. Where they can build a life together.

Where he can give him a ring.

Steve lets him. Steve listens, because if anything- Bucky is a dreamer. And if anything- Steve just loves being a part of that dream. Finally. Together.

But, as with all dreams, the humble and happy life they’ve begun to piece together eventually comes to an end.

Abruptly. In the early light of day. When a surprise military strike captures the eyes of the nation, effectively altering the course of US history, and thus the future of Steve and Bucky, forever.

———————-

##  **AND**

———————-

“I’m going with you.”

“I think we both know that isn’t an option. I think we both also know you need to stop trying.”

———————-

“You  _said_  it. You said until the end of the line.”

“And what if it happens, yeah? What if it  _is_ the last thing I do? My line does not have to be your line, Steve-”

“That’s not true. I can’t live without you. If you’re thinking now that there’s a chance- I’m telling you I can’t. I won’t.”

“Steve-”

“I  _won’t_.”

“Then you stay. You stay here and you give me a  _goddamn reason_  to fight with everything I have to come back.”

———————-

“I won’t even be able to take you to the station and kiss you goodbye.”

“Kiss me now, then. While we still have the chance.”

———————-

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were smaller.”

———————-

“Come here. Now that we’re alone, let me get a real look at you-”

“I guess I’m different, huh?”

“Not really. No. Still exquisite.”

———————-

“It  _is_  interesting, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m used to looking _down_  in admiration. Ya know. Cause you were short.”

“Ass.”

“Ooh, can I? Baby, it’s been so long. And it’s so nice. And round-”

“Did you just call me baby?”

“Mm. You gonna pick a fight over it?”

“I like it, actually. Say it again-”

“Steve. My Stevie. My  _baby_.”  

———————-

“What’ll you do? When it’s over?”

“What do you mean?”

“When we capture Zola. When we dismantle Hydra. When we first get the call that it’s all over. What’ll you do?”

“Kiss you in front of god and everybody. Damn all consequence.”

———————-

_The only thing worse than watching the love of your life fall to their death_

_…is when you don’t fall with them._

———————-

_The only thing worse than waking up from a 70 year old nightmare_

_…is realizing you actually didn’t_

———————-

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

_But the pause._

_The pause means everything._

———————-

“I’ve been…dead. From the moment he fell off that train. For the first time since, it feels like I’m not.”

“Barnes means that much to you, then?”

“Natasha. He means  _everything_.”

———————-

“Then finish it. Cause I’m with ya to the end of the line.”

———————-

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

_I’ve held your hand._

_I’ve kissed your lips._

_I’ve loved you. In all the spaces of my heart._

“I know you’re nervous. And you have plenty of reason to be. But you’re lying.”

———————-

“I don’t know if I’m worth all this, Steve.”

_Darling. You are worth everything._

———————-

“You sure about this?”

“I can’t trust my own mind.”

———————-

“Is it all gone?”

“It’s all gone.”

“How do you feel?”

“Oh, don’t you  _dare_. Don’t you tread me like that. I may not remember everything. But-  _baby_ \- I remember you.”

———————-

_Ashes to ashes._

_Dust to dust._

————————

_The only thing worse than losing someone again_

_…is the devastating realization that maybe- this time- you won’t be getting them back_

———————

##  **NOW**

———————-

“Bucky-”

Feet fall heavy on the staircase as they run. Steady- three, six, nine, cool metal locked around Steve’s wrist in a vice grip yet, somehow, gentle still. Laughter carries from the floor below, echoing around them as Steve’s toe glances off the edge of a step and he nearly stumbles.

“Bucky,” he laughs, “ _slow down_.”

“Don’t you think,” his counterpart says, firm hand steadying him before tugging him up and forward again, “as the world’s most  _perfect_ specimen,” a sharp turn made at the narrow landing, “taking stairs three at a time- shouldn’t- bother you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself the world’s most perfect specimen-”

“Well then,” a glance over his shoulder, a smile, “ _sweetheart_ , you would be  _wrong_.”

They reach the entryway to their bedroom with momentum that carries Steve forward and halfway inside, Bucky closing the door and flicking the lock behind them. He moves toward him, eyes light and dancing, seizing him by the arm as lips attack his neck.

“‘What is this about?”

“Saw an opportunity,” he says between grazes of teeth, “took a chance,” flick of tongue, “they won’t miss us.”

“It’s _our_  house,” Steve protests with a snort, “It’s _your_ birthday!” But he is definitely  _definitely_  not complaining

“Yeah, well,” Bucky answers, lips ambling up Steve’s neck, along his jaw, “ _que sera sera_  and what not,” and, finally, over his mouth. The kiss is sweet, urgent and pressing but so sweet, his hands reaching to cup the sides of Steve’s face, to sweep to the back of his head and thread fine golden hairs and hold him there. Nipping, licking delving until Steve is boneless against him, reaching out to wrap arms around him and brace himself from falling.

Abruptly, Bucky halts. Breaking the kiss with whimpered protest as he steps back and away, “I  _did_ have a point, though,” he says, catching his breath, “Stop distracting me-”

“ _Me?!_ -”

But his eyes are alight with mirth. With effervescent joy that spills over onto Steve’s face, infecting him with warmth and goodness and _love_.

He’s done up all handsome, dove gray button up tucked into black trousers. His hair is neat and pulled low into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Laugh lines splinter finely from the corners of his eyes, a new addition to his striking face added only in the months since his return. Since Steve had walked him back from the dead with nothing more than sheer will and grit and love.

A year ago, he had sat alone at a table with a photo of Bucky and a half emptied, useless bottle of scotch. He’d scratched his determination onto a sheet of paper headed with Bucky’s name,  _I’m bringing you home. I’m bringing you home._

And now, gloriously, he  _was_  home. His first birthday back in Brooklyn. With Steve. Together.  _Home_.

To say he’d gotten everything he ever asked for would be an understatement, he’d told Steve. Still, he watches him. Smirks at his curious eyes before his mouth grows solemn. Serious.

“Do you know,” he says finally, “how much I love you?”

Steve blinks, angling his head slightly. The steady beat of his heart stutters only a bit as Bucky moves toward him again, grabbing his hand and tugging him down to the foot of their bed where he joins him. Sea gray eyes implore him.

“Because,” he says softly, “I know how much you love me. I do. I live and breathe and walk that love every day. I  _know_. But do you know, Stevie, how much I love you?”

Steves brows draw together. Eyes soft. Silently, he leans into the hand Bucky reaches along the side of his face.

“You’ve walked through Hell,” he continues, “You’ve found me there and you’ve carried me out of if. Again. And again.  _And again._  You never gave up on me. And I owe everything to you.”

Suddenly Steve’s throat feels very tight, “You don’t owe me-”

A fervent shake of Bucky’s head, “Let me tell you this,” he says, “because I need you to understand. I need you to know. You have never been given what you deserve. As much as you deserve. Never a day in your life, but it hasn’t ever changed who you are.”

His swallow is thick, he drops his hand, only to lace it with the one Steve has rested in his lap.

“You used to think you were weak,” he says, “but you have  _always_ been the strongest man I know.”

“You thought you had no  _value_ ,” the word is strained. Bucky is strained, “you have  _always_  been invaluable.”

Steve’s eyes feel hot. Suddenly they glisten in a way that’s mirrored by Bucky’s own. Metal fingers tap sternly into the center of his chest. Against the golden Captain America tie clip gifted to him in jest.

“And it’s not because of this,” Bucky says, “It’s not because of a shield. Or a suit. You have always  _always_ been good enough. More than enough.  _Everything_.”

He shimmers in Steve’s vision. Still, Bucky soldiers on.

“I’ve been scared my whole life of losing you,” he says, “Of what I’d do if you were gone. But you- you took me from death and brought me  _back_ ,” his voice cracks on the word and Steve shifts forward, pressing lips to the first tear that slips from Bucky’s waterline.

“I told you,” Steve answers, “That I wouldn’t live without you.”

Another tear slips and Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against Steve’s, “Even when I didn’t know myself. I knew  _you_. I will always _know you_. You will always be mine. And that is something I need you to understand. That is something I need  _you_  to know.”

“I do,” Steve whispers, and suddenly Bucky isn’t the only one crying, “I do, Buck. I know.”

Later, they will call it a mess. They will tease the other about the quickest way to make an old man cry. But now, they hold one another. Hands gentle and loving. Mouths soft with sweet devotion. They kiss away the others tears. They whisper  _I love you_ s. Over and over again. Back and forth until the words seem nonsensical but the meaning is still there.

Together. Finally. After everything. Through it all. They are  _together_.

When the tears stop, when everything is quiet again, Bucky leans back. He looks at Steve for a long moment before his eyes light up. Before his mouth tilts into a familiar, lopsided smile.

“I got you something,” he says.

The words pull Steve’s memory. A handsome boy bouncing excitedly on his feet. A polished wooden box. Pencils- every color of the rainbow. So long ago. So old. Still sweet.

He’s different now. They both are. But still, in some ways, Bucky Barnes is very much the same.

Slowly, he shakes his head, “Do you know how birthdays work?”

Bucky laughs. He reaches back and dips a hand beneath the fold of their turned down duvet, retrieving something small and clothbound that had been hiding there all along. Planned, obviously, long before they’d entered the room.

“I didn’t wrap it,” he says, handing it over, “I hope that’s okay.”

It’s not the same one. Not the one bound in seafoam and dove and stamped on the cover in yellow gold. But Steve still recognizes the title.  **New Hampshire**. He remembers it all the same.

Careful eyes peek up at Bucky, brows drawn in confusion that only intensifies when he sees he’s wearing a smile.

“You hated this,” he says, the relief in Steve’s eyes evident enough to make him laugh, “I _do_  remember that. I know. The only time I’ve ever seen you cry like that in my life, you asshole. I was terrified. I spent hours the next morning reading it. Trying to understand why. I buried it in the trash before you came in for breakfast. When I realized it was wrong.”

“What?”

“It was wrong. Steve. He was  _wrong_ ,” Bucky says, smiling at his confusion, tapping the side of the book in his hands, “I have the page marked. Open it and see what I mean-”

Hesitantly, Steve does. Spine cracked and broken, the book falls easily to the page threaded with a thin strip of yellow ribbon. And what he notices first is the black. Fat lines of black drawn in neat short strips, obscuring all words except three. His heart clenches as he reads them carefully

**———————**

**—————**

**———————**

**—————**

**——————-**

**———————**

**—————**

**——** gold can stay

_Gold can stay_

“I love you,” Bucky says, breaking the silence as hands reach up again for Steve’s face, guiding his eyes toward his, thumbs ambling along his cheeks, “everything else may change, but I love you. That will  _always_  stay.”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to Steve’s lips, “ _Baby_ ,” and Steve’s eyes shutter closed, savoring the word that is so sweet coming from him-

“We are  _gold_ ,” Bucky says, “We always will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Poetry belongs to Robert Frost  
> *Recognizable quotes in the AND portion belong to the MCU  
> *pre serum Steve isn't colorblind per I needed him to not be


End file.
